Tunga Skógarfólksins |
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8th October 2025
After Curfew
After Curfew
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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro & Esme Affected
Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro & Esme Affected
Esme Hestridge. Slytherin, first year. It had taken a concentrated effort of a little over a day of research and contact-searching to figure out enough about her for him to attempt to approach her on the topic of the letter that he had received a few days ago. Of course, it was his habit to rarely take information at its face value. He always seemed to find it in himself to try to verify the legitimacy of the information he received before he acted entirely upon it. Between rumors and word of tongue that he traced back to certain primary sources to confirm their relevancy, he was fairly certain that this particular first year would be perfect for his cause.
What was a better way to grab a Slytherin's attention and to stay out of the way of any other individuals, than to lurk right outside the very dungeon passageway that led to their common room? The older he got, the more he was coming to terms with the fact that even curfew at Hogwarts was not good enough to protect the students of the school. As far as Piérre was concerned, it was a means to keep them in sequestered and isolated locations--places that were difficult to escape from if necessary and indeed threatened to trap them inside if God forbid something horrible did happen.
He remained in his natural form for the time being. Perhaps to him it would serve as a marker of good faith--to show his actual face, scar and all. After all, he had no underhanded intent, he had no malicious desire in attempting to obtain knowledge on the letter he held in hand. He wanted answers and that was all, and the best way to continue to prove that was to be, for the time being, honest. As honest as he could safely be in most situations.
So he loitered near the Slytherin door, near where he had picked up Astra for their little adventure at the Fall Ball, one foot and his back on the wall as he leaned against it, tapping the letter's capsule on his temple as he waited anxiously. His other hand's fingers rapped quickly on his opposite arm's bicep. Figaro wound himself around his supporting leg, purring up a storm as emerald eyes focused on the particular ripples in the fur of the feline that concealed scars that had altered the coat's natural growth patterns. Little Figaro... He smiled for a moment before the expression faded softly.
Deep breath, in and then out. Calming the heart, soothing the nerves. Piérre had become more and more neurotic over the years, part and parcel of excessive worrying, of stress and fear attached to the loss of so many of those that he had thought close to him or at least the presence of a particularly notable chasm between himself and them. It was in his nature now, it seemed, to worry similarly to how his brother would--perhaps now he was starting to come to terms with how it was that Romeo had felt himself when Piérre had gone off on so many of his shenanigans in his youth. Tit for tat, turnabout being fair play or something...
The darkness was something that he didn't like lingering in, but somehow found clothed him all the same. It was a subconscious effort, something that he had relegated himself to over time as well. An eerie grace when it came to the art of elusion from eye and ear [Cat's Grace], and so in his positioning he was attempting (for the most part) to ensure that he spotted Esme... before he was spotted by someone else.
Even by her.
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@Esme Hestridge
Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight
Tunga Skógarfólksins |
| E | ✧  ✧location. the dungeons, near the slytherin common room. date. 8th of october, past curfew. mentions. @Piérre Marchonné.  Esme was not one particularly inclined to leave the common room past nine. Curfew had never been a problem for her; though she found it ridiculous that she would have to adhere to a stricter one than the upperclassmen at Hogwarts, she understood to a degree that it was a safety precaution. She had only spent a month and some change in Hogwarts, and she had already been regaled by plenty of horror stories from everyone around her, and witnessed some herself. The fall ball debacle one could call an escape room came to mind. Usually, starting around eight in the evening, Esme could be found in the Slytherin Common Room. She adhered to a strict routine that required her in bed by ten sharp, so she took the moments before she had to get ready for bed for socialization. She played chess with some of the Slytherin friends she had met, or just chatted — Livia, for example, was a conversation partner Esme was eternally grateful for. She understood Esme like not many people at Hogwarts did, having a similar upbringing and equally academically-oriented mind. Esme’s roommate, Sophia, was also a pleasant face to see around the common room or in their shared dorm; Esme was blessed to have a roommate she actually got along with. The other people Esme would consider friends were, unfortunately, split high up in the winding towers of the castle — her cousin, Stella, in Gryffindor, Camille in Ravenclaw — so it was important that Slytherin did actually hold some familiar faces. One such familiar face, unfortunately, was also a familiar head of flaming red hair. Esme met Cecilia Merrick less than a week ago, yet it seemed Cecilia was already set on destroying whatever semblance of peace Esme had carved out for herself in the silver and emerald halls. Esme regretted not having burnt the letter her father had sent her; it would have led to far less trouble than meeting Cecilia had led to. Miss Merrick, as it stood, was as manipulative and deceitful as a fox, and as annoying as the shrieking creatures, too. Esme was happily curled up on the couch, reading Giovanni Boccaccio’s The Decameron. She only had a few chapters left til she was done, and could report back to her mother on what she thought, and as Thursdays held a spare 20 minutes Esme usually left to unaccounted for errands, she was intent on getting that owl out tomorrow. Unfortunately for both Eleonora and Esme’s literary interests, Cecilia Merrick then found it prudent to sit herself down next to Esme (uninvited, of course; not that Esme would have ever invited her, but it bears highlighting), and begin what could only be described as interrogation. Annoying and inane question after annoying and inane question, Esme knew it would have been impolite not to respond, yet found herself increasingly unwilling. What book was she reading? Who was the author? What was it about? What chapter was she on? What page? By the time Cecilia was asking about the specific line and Esme was suspicious she’d ask about the exact character next, Esme had had enough. This stupid questioning had eaten into not only her reading, but also her time to get ready. She got up and excused herself, perhaps in a more huffy tone than she would usually like, even when being pestered by such a parasite. She had rushed through her nighttime routine, brushing her hair out and braiding it carefully, washing her face, and pulling on her usual silk pyjamas; but, once she actually lay in her bed, Esme found herself simply staring up at the canopy, unable to sleep. It became clear after another half hour spent tossing and turning that the ginger blight on Esme’s life was now also causing her trouble sleeping. She could feel the low simmer of irritation in her bones, her hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically as she tried to sleep. She pulled the curtains closed around her bed, hoping the extra quiet would help. No such luck. After another few minutes, Esme gave up. It was a bitter defeat; one she would never admit, if asked. Cecilia Merrick was nowhere near important to be causing her such distress, yet here Esme was, feeling like she wanted to tear her own hair out. Tear Cecilia’s hair out, too, while she was at it, Esme considered as she stepped out of bed onto the cold floors of the dorm. She slipped back into her sweater and some soft trousers, putting her shoes on quietly. She walked out silently; the storm of annoyance currently brewing in her gut was no reason to wake Sophia up. She would handle her issues as she always did: independently and with grace. It was past ten now; some straggling upper years were flowing in, but the rest of the Common room was surprisingly empty. The few people hanging around paid her no mind, engrossed in their own quiet conversations; some people were reading, even, and Esme found herself feeling slight envy that they were no longer being interrupted. Esme didn’t really have an idea for what to do, standing out in the cold of the dungeons. She just needed a break. Some space to think without the risk of being interrupted. Somewhere without the green and silver that felt borderline suffocating when combined with the memory of Cecilia’s tone. The dungeons, though not somewhere she would usually choose to sit around in, seemed perfect. There was no one around anymore, the gentle rumble of chatter from the common room entirely deafened. The lights were dim; Esme had to blink a few times to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. At least they were a soft yellow, now, not the dim aqua she had just stepped out of. The time of year, combined with the stone walls and the late of night meant it was getting quite cold now, seeping past Esme’s sweater and settling deep into her bones, which was as refreshing as it was a slight shock to her system. Esme wrapped her arms around her torso, looking around the quiet space. Finding no one immediately, she leaned back against her wall, and let her head tilt back as well, inhaling the cold air… … her eyes did not remain closed for long. Esme heard footsteps; almost silent, but in the quiet of the dungeons, their sudden appearance was easy to pick up on. Her head snapped back into its resting position and eyes flew open; she was met with the sight of someone stepping closer. Tall, with brown hair — she couldn’t see all of his features clearly, thanks to the everpresent shadow that lingered around the dungeon, but he was definitely older, and definitely approaching her. Esme felt a slight sense of anxiety, at first — was he a prefect? She would not want to get stuck in detention for something as minor as stepping less than three feet out the common room. Still, as she commanded herself back into proper posture, back straight and chin slightly lifted, she also felt herself relax. As unusual as it was, being approached by someone who seemed far older right when she happened to be breaking rules (as mild as the troublemaking happened to be), this guy didn’t seem to have any outwardly threatening intentions. Not as far as she could tell, anyway. Esme stood still, then, unblinking and unflinching. Cautious, though optimistic. She figured she wouldn’t open her mouth and dig herself into trouble before she even knew quite what was happening.  wc. 1267 notes. godmodding perms granted by cecilia. ✧✦✧ |
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thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
Tunga Skógarfólksins |
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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro & Esme Affected
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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro & Esme Affected
Physical description, body language, and personality were key factors that the boy always inquired about, his desire for them always thinly veiled by the disinterested off-the-cuff questions about other adjacent, innocent queries such as hobbies, recent activities, and involvement with the school on a broader scale. Never did he push too hard for information, and when sensing that a party had no more information to give, he sought another--ever and always a constant dance of piecing such things together and formulating a profile that matched not only in the physical aspect but also in the psychological. It was not enough to understand what a person appeared to be, but to understand why they were.
Slytherins filed past his little hiding spot, remaining as still as death as green eyes watched them pass with nary a glow to indicate recognition or intrigue. Most of them were the rule-abiders, a strange quality among the Slytherin house, he felt: to allow themselves to obey such an "obligatory" norm with little question. Mm... but perhaps that was his own opinion.
And eventually, one did emerge that did by all parameters previously determined seemed to align with the target of his interests. He tipped his head like a bird, mentally checking boxes and then exhaling quietly as he determined to show his hand. He cared not for how late it was by now, nor did he care how flagrantly he infringed upon the curfew--he wore neither watch or timepiece, nor did he feel that at this point any kind of curfew would benefit him anymore... and it seemed likely that to this Slytherin girl such restriction bore little weight either. Chill had vanished from him, or perhaps it was more apt to say that he wasn't allowing it to bother him: he felt the clammy and nibbling cold through his thinner and eccentric outfit of gossamer white shirt and tan breeches which with he wore a belt crooked upon his hips. His arms were crossed with the capsule in the wristcuff of his left hand, his feet were moving with mostly silence saved for the heels that produced a slight scuffling.
She would realize that the sound came from his direction, and his eyes quickly assessed her facial features and then ticked off another box. She matched physical facial descriptors. It was curious, how she immediately stiffened into an upright and refined posture before soothing the brief but noted flutter of nervous alarm as he ventured close. He had stopped when she had startled, remaining slightly in the dark. No need to be hasty... or rude.
Instead, he tried a meagre and disarming smile. This was a friendly errand. "Didn't mean to spook you." His voice was soft, genuine. It felt strange, to speak without bravado. Perhaps he was tired of it, the feeling of constant performance. "But... I'm not a prefect." He shrugged. "Maybe you can help me. I'm looking for an Esme. Esme Hestridge. I understand she's a Slytherin, and I was hoping she could help me with a favor involving a reading."
He was... fairly... confident that he was currently speaking to the person that he was seeking... but it never hurt to double-verify. Double-check. Confirm and reassess.
Some people in this school had a nasty habit of looking very much like other people... and, similarly, many people simply were not who they said they were or who they appeared they were. Perhaps it was an unfounded fear, but Piérre was not one for taking unnecessary chances or risks... even if he was fond of jumping directly into them headfirst.
The silver bengal morph that was Figaro slunk into the fray as well, lingering at an angle to both Piérre and the girl. It was strange, almost as if the feline was picking out a decisive angle at which it could leap in and engage with the space between the two of them to the greatest effect. Picking out an... attack point. But for now the cat sat back on his haunches, whisking his tail over his front paws as the black tip flicked lightly and he closed minty green eyes with a lazy but vigilant tendency.
The boy hesitated for a moment, considering if more information was good to concede at the moment as it stood... and then flicked his yew wand lightly with an incantation of "Lumos.", adding to the light of the dungeons with a hazy yellow-white glow and revealing his face fully. Shadow were heavy across the left side of his face, but in his left hand the bone capsule and the stopper that bore pale blue and rich leaf-green crystals--oligoclase and vesuvianite for those that knew gemology at a glance--bound by sinew became slightly more visible behind the meat of his palm. Visible too became... well, the discolouration on his left side of his face as well in spidering shades of red that threatened maroon in some places. Bruiselike, almost, but... no. Splash pattern--liquid-induced damage of the flesh.
It became almost immediately obvious that the act of illumination was a matter of sheepishness, as his throat tightened for a second and his Adam's apple bobbed slightly with a quick swallow concurrently with a subconscious tightening in his jaw. He blinked, eyes remaining neutral but brows creased earnestly.
He was showing too much.
Too much.
Be careful, boy. Carefully, now...
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@Esme Hestridge
Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight
Tunga Skógarfólksins |
| E | ✧ ✧mentions. @Piérre Marchonné. Esme observed, careful and cautious as always, as the stranger approached. She had to make a concentrated effort to keep her eyes trained on every movement, for some reason feeling it was hard to remain as vigilant as she was used to. Her senses felt oddly dull, shoulders relaxing even when she wasn’t fully convinced of if they should. The boy — man? he seemed far older than she was, though the ever present darkness of the dungeon certainly did not help in making even a rough estimate — had a smile on his face, polite and looking at least vaguely sincere. It stretched across his face naturally, not overdone until it split from ear to ear; merely there. Gentle, almost inviting, even. His voice carried on with that same impression: “Didn’t mean to spook you. But... I'm not a prefect.” A platitude, for all Esme could know, but one she appreciated. The stranger’s tone was soft, calm, but held a quiet note of self assurance, only strengthened by the casual shrug of his shoulders and the question he posed. Looking for an Esme Hestridge? Well, she thought, mildly amused with the idea, certainly found her, then. Still, despite the slight levity that the thought brought, Esme’s brow furrowed. It appeared the man didn’t mean her any harm, sure, but nevertheless, she was a first year, alone at night, from a different house than he was. What reading did he need her to do that he couldn't have done himself — or, for that matter, have someone else do? She was well educated, she could suppose — but it’s not like she was the only person with above average academic scores or reading comprehension skills in this entire school. Perhaps it was meant as a compliment; if so, it wasn’t one Esme understood. It certainly didn’t seem hostile, anyway. Another movement caught Esme’s eye, then; the slink of misty spotted fur, silver under the dim dungeon lights, just by the stranger’s legs. A cat, she realised, eyes widening. It lingered between him and Esme, sitting back on its haunches, tail curling naturally around its own front paws, twitching slightly. Its eyes were a pale green; like stones of polished jade, barely visible through its lazy expression. Not fully open, but most definitely not closed. Watching. Waiting, perhaps. If it had looked any friendlier, she would have considered reaching out, perhaps attempting to pet it, even — but before she could, the stranger cast lumos. Esme blinked, eyes adjusting to the sudden glow. The yellow-white, gentle as it was, was a slight shock when used to the greenish tones of all the lake-filtered lighting of the Slytherin Common Room. Now that it was there, though, she could actually see the stranger properly, and she quickly seized the opportunity. She was satisfied to know that she was correct, and he was definitely older. If his height hadn’t suggested at that already, the scruff of facial hair across his jaw certainly did. More interesting than that, still, was the left side of his face. Discolored till it was a reddish-purple, all but outright burgundy, in an irregular pattern. Unmistakably a scar — Esme found herself staring at it for a few split seconds before she realised that would have been a downright embarrassing faux pas and averted her eyes. Her attention turned to another thing that came into view thanks to the charm: a container of some sort. A capsule, a stopper of pretty blue and green crystals. What it hid, she had no guesses; only a feeling that she would find out soon enough. “Right,” Esme cleared her throat, subtly tilting her neck, rolling out one of her shoulders a bit. She put on a polite smile of her own, returning to carefully maintained eye contact with the stranger; as long as he was friendly, there was no reason for her not to be. “Well, you’d be in luck. I’m Esme Hestridge. Indeed a Slytherin,” she said. She kept her voice measured, though she wasn’t trying to hide her own caution by any means, either. She was well-mannered — she wasn’t a liar. “Though I’m afraid I’m not as familiar with you as you seem to be with me. Pardon my bluntness, but I don’t believe we share any classes together, either.” Obvious, of course: anyone looking at them would have been able to tell they were in far different years. He could have known her from somewhere else, some long-forgotten family event: his voice held a lilt to it she recognised as distinctly Italian. It wasn’t dissimilar from the way her aunt and uncle sounded, along with her grandparents and especially some of the distant cousins she only saw on visits to the south of Europe. Still, his face remained unfamiliar, and her words merely cliché, merely a truism meant to serve as segue. “Who might you be?” wc. 817 notes. none. ✧✦✧ |
H |
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
Tunga Skógarfólksins |
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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro & Esme Affected
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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro & Esme Affected
The gleam in the emerald eyes would transform into a glitter almost immediately as the Slytherin girl confirmed her identity and they would crease slightly in pleasantness. "Well, indeed what good luck!" The words carried an air of a chirp to them, an almost childish delight, but the deepness in those pupils did not seem to shallow themselves. They looked tired despite their youth, almost hollow. "No, I don't think we would. The school's about to kick me out after the spring semester, after all." A dry jest.
The wand was rotated in his fingers, the light glowing from the pale tip of the implement seeming to turn along with it--a sort of fidget. His eyes downcast themselves for a moment before they returned. "Piérre." He replied, the name on his tongue seeming... wrong. Still, he permitted it to embitter his mouth. "Marchonné. Not a household name, I'm afraid." It was simply the fact of his life--unremarkability, failure, loathing. This was the typical pipeline. Forget the fact that at least in the school it was likely his name was whispered a little; the student who frequently disappeared and reappeared, who was "strange" and "crazy". Who always seemed to be just a breath away from flying off of the handle, or at least from completely spiralling into such madness. Truthfully, he likely was not even worth this young student's attention in the slightest, and he wouldn't have been surprised if she simply turned her back and walked away.
And yet, so far, she hadn't. And they still stood here, conversing.
Remarkable.
"And while I know your name and house, you are correct: I don't know terribly much about you, and I'd like to change that. Especially since I am somewhat asking for a favor; if that's alright." He took a slight breath. "So... turnabout is fair play if you want to know anything in my ability to answer as well."
So saying, the capsule's lid was removed and he offered it to her open-handedly. His brows were now furrowed with intent. The gleam of bone in the yellowish illumination would cast the osseous structure in a sort of dull shininess. It was smooth except for the places where the runes were deeply carved into it: Raidō, Algiz, Othala. "I looked for you specifically because of a rumor that you understand, perhaps even speak, Veela." It was now, unfortunately, a matter of business, and the slight shift in his tambor was reflecting that. His voice had turned slightly sterner despite its inquisition. "A friend of mine who knows Mermish couldn't make heads or tails of it, but recommended I try to find someone who knows Veela." Despite himself, an uncomfortable sighing chuckle of worry came and went. "And so... I... skulked about. Learned of you. Here we now stand."
Was it trust, or was it demand? Piérre didn't dare to determine which. He hoped that it was a request. Hoped that he would not be turned away. But it was well within Esme's rights to do so. To reject the ask he had of her, to scoff and turn away before they got in trouble both. Perhaps that would have been the wise thing for a student to do. Yet, if there was something that he had learned of people over the years, it was that he could never reliably assume that a person would act the way that he thought they might in response to the way that others acted or spoke. The capsule was rolled a little further towards the tips of his fingers, a little closer to her in offering.
There was nothing more to say to offer a means to convince in his mind. It would be or it wouldn't, and there was no way to change a mind made. All there was to do was to remove all doubt and to learn if the cat was alive or dead.
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@Esme Hestridge
Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight